


When the Rain Starts to Pour

by Angelbird



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (Second and third kisses), Angst, Castiel Does Not Understand Humans, Episode: s06e10 Caged Heat, First Kiss, Kissing in the Rain, Love, M/M, The peril of socks (or lack thereof)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 10:15:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6002140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angelbird/pseuds/Angelbird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel is not sure which is more tiring; the war in Heaven, or learning how to properly interact with humans. (Dean is a help. Except for when he isn’t.)</p>
<p>Set around 6.10 Caged Heat. Slight spoilers for this episode.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When the Rain Starts to Pour

 

“When somebody kisses you, you usually kiss them back, Cas.”

Most of the time, Castiel loves it when Dean uses that voice. It is a soft, slightly entertained tone that makes the hunter seem playful and happy. The angel knows that it is pretence more often than not, but even that he can appreciate; it means that Dean still cares enough to pretend – and, more importantly, that he has the energy to do it.

It isn’t quite working now, however. There is something underlying the gentle words, something raw and fragile. Something _pained_. Whatever Castiel did (or didn’t do), it was wrong.

Castiel thinks he is getting better, he honestly does; human behaviour makes so much more sense to him now than it used to. But that still doesn’t mean that he knows how to react to every unexpected (non-life threatening) situation. Dean knows this. Castiel _knows_ that Dean knows this.

And it seems Dean remembers that he knows. He buries whatever shadow Castiel accidentally cast over him. He keeps smiling. He carries on. It is like nothing happened (after a short while, at least) (that it took any time at all scares Castiel more than he cares to admit).

They don’t talk about it.

 

\- - -

 

Castiel tries. He really does. He thinks that Dean understands that. And the hunter gives him pointers. Sometimes they are subtle, maybe even subconscious. Sometimes they are very explicit.

So when Meg kisses him, Castiel kisses her back.

It is one of the weirdest experiences he has ever had, which – given his lifespan – is saying something. He takes a brief moment to consider if Dean would even qualify the demon as _somebody_. But they are working with her, and the Winchesters treat her as a person. Castiel does what is par for the course these days and follows their lead.

Then he is kissing her. There is a hint of sulphur on her breath, but her borrowed body is soft against his. For the shortest second that bothers him; it is not her body, and she has no right to use it like this. But Castiel knows that it is not actually the demon’s actions that upset him. _His_ body is borrowed. _He_ has no right. He should need permission, consent, but he is doing what he wants without asking. He is using his vessel to blend in with humanity in every way, to follow Dean’s lead, and in order to do that he _takes_. That is how demons work. Not angels.

Castiel might have whimpered a little bit into the kiss.

Meg asks him, “What was that?”

Dean says nothing.

 

\- - -

 

After they are done, Dean asks Castiel if he wants more time with the demon. The angel doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know where that question even comes from. Dean confuses him at times.

 

\- - -

 

Castiel returns after a very short time; no more than a couple of days have passed on Earth. He needs the break, needs to be able to rest somewhere where he is welcome. Maybe even wanted.

But the Winchesters’ company does not give him the respite he expects. The air in the motel room feels suffocating (Castiel doesn’t even _need_ to breathe) and there is an underlying tension so clear that even he notices it. The angel wonders if his speculations on the state of Sam’s soul has caused the strain. He thinks this likely; Dean will forever be upset about anything pertaining to the safety and well-being of his little brother.

Of course, said little brother (sans soul, but still) shatters that illusion all on his own, “You’re even worse than normal!”

Dean is watching a show on the television, feigning more concentration than Castiel thinks the animated characters warrant. Sam is sitting at the motel room’s rickety table, looking like he is seriously considering throwing something at his brother. The angel stands by quietly, not having been engaged in any conversation since he landed (his eyes are fixed on the hunter on the bed, though).

“Dean, I’m talking to you!” Sam huffs annoyed.

Dean turns his head towards his brother, eyes not quite leaving the screen, “I’ve got no idea what you’re on about, Sam.”

“ _Right,”_ the accompanying snort is equal parts disbelieving and amused, “You know what, you can sort this out on your own. I’m going out.” Before Dean can protest Sam is up, the Impala’s keys jangling from his fingers. “Don’t wait up. And for Heaven’s sake,” snigger, “leave a sock or something, okay?” Sam is grinning as he leaves the room, followed by his brother’s shout.

“Sam! Come back here!” The door swings shut.

Dean’s eyes have finally left the screen, but now they are fixed on the door. Castiel briefly wonders if he should ask for a clarification of the significance of socks on Dean’s sleeping patterns, but something makes him refrain.

He knows it is impossible, but there definitely seems to be something wrong with the air in the room, “I do not believe the climate of this room to be beneficial to the human health.” Dean has told him that staring is not appropriate. He ought to make conversation.

Dean’s eyes finally flick to Castiel’s face. There’s a quick flash of something almost entertained mixed in with the confusion, but then the hunter averts his eyes again, “Maybe you’re right, man,” he gets up and stretches, still without looking over, “I’m going for a walk.”

Castiel feels his vessel’s head tilt almost on its own, as Dean makes his way to the door in a few long strides. He only pauses once it is open and he is already halfway through. “Thanks for stopping by, Cas. Don’t let me keep you.”

And then he is gone.

 

\- - -

 

There’s a little park with a patch of trees not too far from the motel. Castiel lets Dean wander aimlessly for a good ten minutes, before he lands behind him, “Dean.”

The hunter almost doesn’t startle, “Geez, Cas,” at least he is looking at him now, “Don’t you have anything better to do?”

“If my company is not welcome, you may say so, Dean.” Not that Castiel would like to be told so. He is actually surprised by how little that thought appeals to him. He feels his face grow immobile, his grace curling slightly in on itself.

“No, Cas! It’s not that,” Castiel already feels better, “It’s just... Don’t you have a war to fight, anyway?”

“I cannot offer any assistance at this particular moment.” Castiel feels tired enough that he would probably only be a liability as it is.

This weariness is daunting. He remembers it from the time he was cut off from Heaven, although the loss of his powers were at the forefront of his mind then. _This_ is a loss of connection. Even if he can still hear his brethren’s voices this time, he is not truly a part of the choir. Even his own allies do not want to share that kind of intimacy with him. Nor he with them; he has secrets that he could not possibly keep if anyone was to connect their grace that closely with his.

Usually, he is offered solace by his human family (Castiel thinks, hopes, _prays_ he may still consider them that). The closeness and connection he feels with the Winchesters can go a long way towards alleviating the aching emptiness in his grace. But Sam has lost his soul, and Dean, although only a few feet away from him, seems to be keeping his distance. Castiel can feel it in the restraint in the hunter’s soul. (The averted eyes give him a hint, too.)

Castiel feels his wings shiver. His vessel’s face remains impassive.

“Because you lost your blade?” Dean’s voice cuts through his morose musings.

“What?”

“You lost your blade. You let Meg take it. You let Meg _take off_ with it,” Dean sounds agitated. Angry eye contact is still better than no contact, though.

“I suppose.”

“Why the _hell_ did you do that, Cas?”

“I don’t see the problem?”

“Aren’t you in the middle of a fucking war?” Castiel shakes his head slowly. It only seems to incense Dean further. “What the hell are you _thinking?”_

Castiel does not like being berated like a child. Especially not when he still doesn’t see the problem, “Stop complaining, Dean. I came to your aid. Also, it doesn’t fucking matter, does it? It’s not like my blade can do _anything_ against an archangel, anyway,” Castiel has raised his voice too, now. He is also quite proud of his use of profanity. Dean for his part looks momentarily stunned. Castiel continues more calmly, “Archangels aren’t that easy to kill, remember?”

There’s a beat of silence. “How,” Dean swallows once, before continuing in a steadier voice, “how are you planning on winning your war, then?”

The angel makes an almost dismissive shrug, “I will figure something out.”

Deans expression flicker before it goes carefully blank. A wind rustles through the leaves in the momentary silence, “That something you want help with?” his voice is quiet.

“No, it is my war, I will deal with it.”

“Cas...” Dean pauses, and the next words seem to cost him, “You know I’m there for you, right?”

Castiel wonders why voicing such sentiments seems to almost cause Dean physical pain. He means what he is saying, Castiel can see that reflected clear as day in the slivers of the hunter’s soul that dance in his eyes. The angel appreciates it.

Finally, Castiel’s wings begin to relax slightly.

“I will be fine, Dean,” he goes for his best non-confrontational voice. (It probably comes out mostly flat.)

“But still, you lost your blade. Raphael aside, there’s still everything, _everyone_ else...”

Castiel sighs, “You don’t understand,” he doesn’t know why they must keep discussing this. It makes him think of the demon, and that is certainly not beneficial to his relaxation, “My blade is a part of me. I can summon it at any time.”

A half-second of stunned silence follows, then Dean splutters, “You gave her a _part of you_?”

Castiel is slowly growing frustrated. Why does Dean not understand that he has just told him that the whole thing with the blade is _not_ a _problem?_ Irritated, Castiel summons his blade to hold up in front of Dean, “See? It’s right here!” Somehow Castiel has managed to work some of his annoyance into his borrowed voice. He doesn’t know if that is a good thing entirely.

Dean makes a half-strangled sound, gaze following the silver weapon slowly swaying in front of his eyes. “You don’t get it, do you?” It’s all but a whisper.

Castiel stops abruptly and lowers the weapon. Dean’s eyes follows it, and don’t return to the angel’s. “I don’t understand,” no reaction, “Dean, explain it to me.”

“I can’t...” Dean shifts his gaze, eyes flickering shortly over Castiel’s face, never quite meeting his eyes, before fixing on a great fir off to the side.

A lone runner passes on a nearby path and the hunter tenses infinitesimally until her footsteps start to fade again.

“Dean,” Castiel pauses. If he didn’t know better, he would say Dean looks rattled. _Afraid_ almost. It’s a ludicrous thought, yet, “You can deal with the memories of forty years in Hell and the Apocalypse. Whatever it is; it cannot be that bad. Tell me?”

Dean finally meets his eyes again, but his expression remains forcibly blank, “It’s not, I suppose,” his voice, on the other hand, is soft.

Castiel feels drawn into Dean’s eyes in a way he has never quite understood and which he doesn’t think makes much sense. It is true that he can see Dean’s soul there, and it is true he has bound himself to that soul so fully that he must forever be tethered to it, but that still doesn’t explain the _pull._ Castiel takes a step closer.

He has been listening, when Dean has told him how to act, and he does know that he is well within the boundaries of the hunter’s so-called personal space now. But in all honesty, it still doesn’t feel close _enough_ to him. He has held that soul, touched it, and he wants to touch it again. He forces himself to blink and look down. He sways back, only then noticing that he had been leaning ever so slightly forward. (Sometimes Castiel worries about his control over his vessel.)

He feels so lonely without the connection with the Host. That is why. That must be why.

Instead his eyes settle on Dean’s lips, and the hunter draws in an almost startled breath. “Cas?”

“Won’t you tell me?” It’s easier to keep addressing Dean’s mouth, although the well-sculpted lips are enticing in their own right. In the periphery of his vision, he can see the myriad of Dean’s freckles. Dean remains quiet.

Castiel wonders about those lips, the longer he looks. He wonders how they would feel, how they would taste. Surely not of sulphur like Meg’s. But what really jars him is that he _should_ know. He _could_ know, but he doesn’t _remember._ The only thing he remembers from then was the quick, shocking flare through his grace; brilliant and bright like Heavenly glory. It had been terrifying and absolutely wonderful.

“Do you consider her a person?” Castiel doesn’t remember deciding to speak the thought out loud.

Dean misses a beat, then, “What?”

“Meg?” Castiel’s eyes are fixed in place, “Do you consider Meg a person?”

“Where does this come from?” Dean is moving his head, in a way that makes the angel think he is trying to catch his gaze, but Castiel is mesmerised. There’s a hint of reservation in the hunter’s voice.

“You said I should kiss back if somebody kissed me. I still wonder if Meg actually qualified.”

Dean lets out a harsh breath. “ _Cas_.” A beat. “Cas, _look_ at me.” Castiel never was able to resist that voice. He meets Dean’s eyes. “Please,” Dean trails of with a choked sound that almost makes Castiel worry.

“What, Dean?”

For a moment there is silence, Dean staring at him wide-eyed. A drop of water runs down the hunter’s cheek, startling Castiel. Then it is followed by another and another. Only then does Castiel notice the rain hitting him too. They are going to be very wet if they stay here much longer.

“Please tell me that wasn’t why you kissed her,” Dean mumbles. Castiel holds his eyes, but does not answer. The rain soaks through their outer layers. “Fuck.”

Castiel feels his grace flinch a bit at the last, harsh exclamation (but at least his vessel stays still). He has done something wrong again. And he was trying so hard.

“You _don’t_ consider her a person.” His statement is without inflection at all.

“Damn it, Cas, it doesn’t _matter_ what I think, okay? You don’t just kiss somebody because some _idiot_ tells you to!”

Castiel bristles. The movement in his grace passes into his vessel and he feels the muscles tense, “You are not an idiot, Dean Winchester. You have been a great help to me in understanding human behaviour and reasoning.”

Dean looks almost appalled. “I’m not so sure about that, Cas...” he trails of uncertainly, his eyes flickering to the side again.

“Of course you have, Dean. Thanks to you, I am able to interact with and read humans now.”

Dean meets his eyes again. “And can you read me?”

“What do you mean?”

“Am I,” deep breath, “Am I upset by this conversation?”

Castiel takes this as permission to look closer. Maintaining eye contact with Dean, it is easy for him to see slivers and flickers of the hunter’s soul. And now that he looks, “Yes. You are.” Castiel is startled by this realisation and upset by it in turn. The emotion follows just a second after the command to the body’s vocal chords, and his voice is as steady as ever.

Dean sighs, “And you haven’t got the faintest clue why, do ya?”

Castiel keeps looking into his eyes. But his soul offers no further answer, just a tumultous confusion and what seems to be a brittle longing. He wonders what the human longs for. Dean usually keeps those desires under lock and key, lest that he feel them too much.

Castiel knows Dean has little belief in getting what he wants.

“Will you tell me?”

Dean shakes his head, not so much in denial as to deflect the question, “If I hadn’t done anything, if I hadn’t said anything, what would you have done when Meg kissed you?”

“I imagine I would have reacted in much the same way I did when you kissed me.”

Dean flinches a little at that. The statement hangs in the air for a while, before he lets out a long breath. “Well, teaches me to keep my trap shut,” he flicks his gaze back up to meet Castiel’s, “and to keep my hands to myself, I guess.”

Castiel feels that reflexive head tilt again, “What do you mean?”

“If my kissing you is as bad as a demon... Shit, I’m sorry, man. I promise I won’t—”

“ _Dean_ ” Castiel stops him short.

“You,” Dean’s voice is very tentative, “you didn’t hate it as much as with he... with the demon?” The alteration seems purposeful.

“I’m... not sure?”

Dean blinks. “‘The hell does that even mean?”

“I was... I mean...” Castiel trails off and takes a deep breath he doesn’t need, “You rather startled me. I did not notice much beyond the effect the close contact to your soul had on my grace.”

“Wait, _what_?” Dean looks torn between hopeful and horrified. It’s mostly the shine of his soul that lets Castiel determine this; he doubts that expression would be readable in human body language at all.

“With the war and the, ah, current state of things in Heaven, my grace has been rather isolated. Your soul, any human’s soul, but for obvious reasons yours in particular, can create the kind of connection that is usually shared between angels, but only with direct contact. I have been, uh, deprived of this contact for a while, so of course I experienced the shock of that above and before the sensations obtained through my vessel’s nerves.”

“Shock? As in... bad?”

“No,” Cas exhales. “No, not exactly.”

Dean looks like he is contemplating for a second, and then that almost hurting expression crosses his face again, “Good?” he asks hesitantly.

It’s Castiel’s turn to hesitate. He registers a weird feeling from his vessel, and it takes him a moment to identify it as a faint flush. It’s getting dark and the rain falls heavily; perhaps Dean won’t notice. “Well. Yes.”

“That something you need, that connection?” Dean’s eyes scrutinise Castiel.

The angel isn’t sure where this is going, “It is... beneficial.”

“And you’re not getting it from your brothers and sisters?”

“Not as it is, no?”

“Can I...” Dean trails of, and it is almost deja vu from earlier in the conversation, “Can I help? Can I do it?” Castiel hunches his shoulders a bit and Dean raises his hands, “No more kissing, I promise, if you don’t wa--” he cuts himself up abruptly and looks down.

This time the flush is on Dean’s face.

Castiel realises something. “And if I do?” he asks silently. Dean looks up uncomprehendingly. “If I do want...” Castiel holds the hunters gaze, “You told me what to do if somebody kissed me. What if I wanted to kiss somebody?”

Castiel can see the exact moment that Dean thinks _to hell with it_ reflected in his green eyes, before the hunter closes the last distance between them, and Dean’s lips are on his again.

The flare from the sudden touch of Dean’s soul comes instantly and it sets Castiel’s grace alight, almost making him lose hold on his vessel’s motor functions. But he pushes through the divine feeling and grabs on to the body he has claimed for his again.

Castiel gasps. Dean’s lips are soft against his, hot and wet. His teeth skims Castiel’s lower lip and the angel is stunned by the lighting that seems to be travelling through his vessel’s nerve endings.

Too soon, the movement of Dean’s lips stop. He barely pulls back; their foreheads rest against each other and their lips are still brushing. Dean’s eyes are closed, water sticking the lashes together, and Castiel wishes fervently he could get a glimpse of the hunter’s soul.

“That thing about kissing _back,_ Cas...”

“Oh.”

Dean’s hands are holding on to his shoulders, and he stays in place. Castiel realises that he has not moved since Dean touched him; his back is straight and his arms hang motionless by his sides, water dripping from his fingertips.

Very tentatively he raises his hands. Bracketed by Dean’s arms, he cannot quite mirror his position. He rests his palms lightly on the hunter’s chest. Dean finally open his eyes.

This close, Dean has to focus on Castiel’s eyes alternatingly. Castiel isn’t quite sure what the human is looking for, but he takes the chance to peer at the dancing fragments of his soul. He almost gasps.

It is rare that Dean’s soul shines this bright, is this full of joy and hope. For a short second the light even hides the shadows. But they are there.

Dean is still apprehensive, Castiel realises. Still afraid. A small part of him seems to be bracing for a rejection. That part is starting to grow.

“It is...” Castiel says, and then stops, distracted by the drag of his lips over Dean’s, the hunter’s warm breath mixing with the cool rivulets of rain. He gives up on explaining how overwhelming the physical sensation is for him, a being without a body. “Do it again?”

Dean’s breath hitches and his hands moves simultaneously to Castiel’s cheek and neck. Once again, the angel feels as though the vessel does the head tilt all on its own, but this time it is perfect.

It’s the flash of the connection (he pushes through it), is is the burn in nerves not his own (but he has to own them), and then Dean’s tongue is prying at the seam of Castiel’s lips.

Castiel makes his first conscious response and opens his mouth.

It is an explosion and a wildfire, a burning benediction rolled up into one. He is kissing Dean back with _his_ mouth, sliding _his_ tongue along the hunter’s. He is not just an entity of grace controlling the vessel, he _is_ the vessel and he is complete. In Dean’s embrace, in Dean’s kiss, Castiel feels alive as never before.

This time, he definitely whimpers into the kiss. Dean moans. The rain pours

 

\- - -

 

(Later, between hasty movements and heavy breathing, Dean rids himself of his wet socks with such vigour that one goes flying outside the still open door of the motel room. When they tumble towards said door to close it moments later, Castiel manages to kick the sock back inside. No reason to make a mess. Dean doesn’t seem to notice either way.)

 

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, Cas made a worse mess than the wet sock by that little stunt. Nobody did explain the significance of socks on the door handle, after all. (In his defence, the sock was on the floor, halfway across the hallway. Sam might not have noticed it either way.)
> 
> \- - -
> 
> I thought I was almost done at one point, shortly before I hit 2500 words. Then somehow, it took those two idiots another 1500 words to kiss. Sam (and the rest of the fandom) was screaming “just kiss already!” all the while.
> 
> \- - -
> 
> Happy Valentine’s!


End file.
